Growing Up Halo-Halo

Growing up, I took whitewashed and internalized it as a term that equaled acceptance. As long as I had molded to the fray, belonged in the space, that word could continue to be tolerable, used both for me and against me. It's a sad realization knowing that it had stung the whole time, but the thing about stings - the more you endure, you eventually go numb. Sometimes you can't feel them in the first place, and then it's too late.  Numb, like not being able to talk about it, and not knowing how to push away from it.  Numb with compliance, docility and resignation. A misplaced acceptance of others shaping a warped version of your sense of self. Numb to the idea that being anything other than white was an offense; an offense that sorely needed to be prosecuted.  The numbness is melting away, leaving the feeling of pins and needles that resembles something like regret.  Whitewashed was and is a way to explain me away. It's appellation of something you don't understand a...

 Because it's definitely not sleep. There was a lot of reluctance in writing about medications and the vast space between psychology appointments. I'm looking at my page trying to remind myself that one of the best books I've read was a memoir on C-PTSD and all the dark parts it outlined, so I can carry on believing that there's meaning to the words I keep dotting on my screen. When I was diagnosed with MDD (major depressive disorder), it wasn't really a shock nor an epiphany. The whole time I thought it was just the big SAD (seasonal affective disorder), and all I had to do was wait around for the respite and warmth of summer.  To my dismay however, I started Wellbutrin, with the hopes that somehow this would be the cure all (because I remain, in fact, delusional, while knowing it's unrealistic). And as the words left my psychologist's mouth, I immediately had to combat the stigma of being on medication, along with the anxieties of the laundry list of side ...